


How Far Ye Fallen

by HiediMazeandNickGrunge



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Cock Slut, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Occult, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-13 16:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19254685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiediMazeandNickGrunge/pseuds/HiediMazeandNickGrunge
Summary: "HYDRA" apprehends Captain America and forces him to endure the unthinkable.Which is exactly what we here at the Trash Party have come expect.As above, so below.And all the other cryptic adages I could list.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed trigger warnings.  
> They are gospel.  
> ***This fic (or at least this chapter) does not depict a romantic version of rape.***  
> There are light and intense sex scenes throughout the chapters. Please be particularly mindful of 1 and 4.

Steve fought the nine guards that hauled him in vibranium chains through the concrete tunnels. When he tried to dig his heels in, they pulled him off his feet. When he fell, they dragged him.  
After time in a holding cell, he had been stripped of his uniform and forced into thin sweats and a white tank, fittingly the sort they'd assign in the old prison camps.  
They took an elevator down, deeper and deeper into the earth beneath the Hydra stronghold. Steve's blood ran too hot to feel the cold.  
Yet.  
When they reached the bottom level, Steve was hauled upright and shoved down the hall. They came to a giant vault door. One operative bashed a baton against Steve's face when he caught him watching the series of steps and combinations taken to open it. Another man kicked him in the ribs and the knees. Had his bones been weaker, the caps would have busted. Steve spat his blood on the ground and turned his blue daggers on the guards.  
"A week," said one.  
"With the wolf? Three days. Tops."  
The vault yawned open, groaning and creaking like the bowels of a ship. They yanked Steve up and pushed him inside. The chains, as though controlled remotely, fell off his body into a heap on the floor. Steve rounded on the door just in time to see it close. The room plunged into sheer darkness.  
Steve tried to breathe quietly. To listen, his every fiber straining to map out the black world around him.  
The wolf.  
The words echoed through his mind, sounding more sinister with each reverberation.  
What was in here with him? Where was he?  
Then, from above, a fluorescent tube flared and flickered to life, joined in succession by a dozen more. Steve found himself in what appeared to be a concrete apartment. Furnished with an angular couch with cushions that looked like bricks, coffee table, and desk, it could have been a den. There were no pictures on the walls. No windows. No television. Steve searched for cameras in the corners. Instead, he found a corridor and followed it into… a kitchen. Refrigerator, stove, dining table, countertop, cabinets… Steve frowned. He hastened further down the corridor to find two bedrooms and a bathroom, which was the only room with a door. No lock, he noticed. But the bathroom had a sink, toilet, and the bare basics of a shower, the faucet hanging from the ceiling so the water could cascade directly onto a body. No curtain. He did, however, notice a vent like the ones in the other rooms, but no switch for a fan.  
The bedrooms each had a single bed with no sheets and a nightstand. Beyond that, the chamber ended.  
Steve went meticulously through every room, feeling along the floors and walls for clues or compartments. For weaknesses and a way out. He swept every inch, his hands nearly raw by the end. Steve found nothing that could aid in escaping. But he did find that all the faucets worked, the water appearing potable, and the kitchen was stocked with essentials like meat, potatoes, and bread.  
Probably all poisoned. Or drugged.  
"Is this some kind of joke?" he sneered. Steve turned in a circle, searching for the cameras he suspected were there but had no proof of.  
"I'm not treating this like a Days Inn! Whatever game you're playing, count me out! Do you hear me? I'd rather rot than be your--!"  
That cavernous groan rumbled again. Steve was too stunned to do anything but strike a defensive pose.  
The vault door! It was opening again!  
But the door immediately shut. And Steve heard footsteps coming down the corridor. He glared and balled his hands up.  
"Here we go," he said under his breath.  
A large man with a body built for intimidation came into the doorway of the kitchen. He wore black leather, the same uniform Steve had seen on the bridge, his brown hair loose and longer than Steve remembered. From what Steve could see, he was not armed.  
Steve's fists went slack.  
"Buck?" His voice sounded hollow. Desperate.  
Those forest green eyes, dark as they were daunting, didn't flinch. He just started at Steve.  
"I am not that man," the soldier who was not James Barnes declared emphatically.  
It felt like a physical blow. Because Steve had to agree. There was nothing of James Barnes in his face or mannerisms. And certainly none of the man who kissed him goodnight years ago.  
"Where am I? What is this?" Steve tried to focus on understanding the situation. Not his feelings.  
"Conditioning. You are here until you surrender."  
Steve scoffed. "Fat chance." Steve stiffened. "We gonna fight or…?"  
The man who was not James Barnes said nothing else. He merely walked out of the kitchen and into the nearest bedroom. Steve heard the mattress springs give as the man who was not James Barnes laid down.  
Steve slipped back into the den. The chains on the living room floor were gone. 

The next chunks of time crawled by. The man who was not James Barnes rarely left Steve alone. He always lurked and lingered either from a corner or a chair or a doorway. Steve caught him staring. Blatantly. And *he* didn't look away. He studied. Obsessively. Steve was either under a microscope, or sharing an enclosure with a man-size carnivore who could leap at his throat at any moment. Steve didn't sleep. He could feel the lack of rest and stress of the constant paranoia gnawing at his strength. He had to stay vigilant. Had to brace himself for the first attack. It occured to him that he should neutralize the soldier before he had that chance. But hurting him, even if he was not James Barnes, went against his every instinct. His every principal. Steve was not an aggressor. And certainly not a rabid dog. They could strip him of his shield and uniform, but they would not take away his morality. 

Steve didn't know how much time had passed. He occupied himself with sweeping the chambers again and again, looking for a trip mechanism out. He hadn't eaten. He caught himself dozing a couple times, microsleeps he recalled a distant someone saying. For his part, Steve ignored the man who was not James Barnes.  
Then, one day, the man who was not James caught Steve searching the den.  
"Do you surrender?" asked the soldier.  
"Not a chance," Steve mumbled and resumed checking under the lamp.  
The soldier crossed the room in three strides. Steve surged to his feet just in time to get a punch to the face. He staggered only slightly before returning the favor. The soldier struck relentlessly, forcing Steve to constantly block or take hits to get his own in. They fought, swing after swing, until the soldier delivered a punch with his mechanical arm directly against Steve's temple. He blacked out as he went down.  
Damn it!  
Steve woke up what had to be seconds later on his knees with his arm twisted behind his back and his cheek against the ground. The soldier knelt behind him.  
"Surrender," the soldier commanded.  
"Kick rocks," Steve hissed, squirming to try to break the hold. Steve felt his bones groan as the grip on his wrist tightened. The gears in the soldier's arm ground and whirred. He caught himself panting.  
Christ Almighty. He was already winded? How long had he been here? Gone without fuel?  
The soldier leaned over him, pressing his chest against Steve's back.  
"Surrender."  
"No," Steve snarled. He gritted his teeth.  
Steve was so hoping mad, partially at himself for not utilizing every resource to stay on top of his game, that he didn't pay too much notice to the flesh hand that grabbed the hem of his sweats until it began to pull them down. Not until the air hit his skin.  
"What--?"  
"Surrender," the soldier repeated, pressing his leather clad hips against Steve's bare ass, telling Steve without words all about the erection building beneath them.  
Steve went stone still. Listened to a zipper open. Steve's stomach dropped as his eyes widened.  
"Wait," Steve rasped, fighting to yank free.  
"Surrender," repeated the soldier, his voice as low and emotionless as it had been from the start.  
Steve felt the heat of a solid, unclothed cock between his rear cheeks.  
He couldn't. He wouldn't! This was a bluff!  
Soldiers didn't use tactics like this!  
"Never." Steve fought with renewed fervor.  
"Surrender."  
"NO!"  
A blow to the back of Steve's head put him out, a ringing in his ears. When he woke instants later, there was a sharp pain in his backside. And from the systematic ease of the soldier's thrusts, Steve knew the sting meant he'd torn. And what was inside. Steve pressed his lips together, too furious to give the tears pricking his eyes any validation, and forced himself to endure it. It was just a battle.  
It didn't mean he'd lost the war.  
Or surrendered.  
He'd do better next time.  
The man wasn't Bucky. Bucky wouldn't do this to him. Bucky had honor. Had a code.  
Steve gritted his teeth and grimaced as the soldier picked up the pace of his thrusts. His face burned with rage and shame and betrayal.  
This wouldn't break him. He'd use it to--  
Steve groaned as the soldier started jackhammering.  
James had been gentle, even if his rhythm was no less punishing. Steve squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't think about James right now. The soldier who was not Buck would not taint those memories. Would not rob him of them.  
"Surrender," the soldier commanded.  
"You're despicable," Steve retorted.  
The man's cock shifted some. Swelled.  
Steve wanted to scream. He knew what it felt like when James was about to blow his load.  
"Not inside," Steve growled. He pulled at the soldier's grip so hard that it felt like he could tear his deltoids.  
The soldier seized his hair and slammed his face back against the ground. Steve stopped pulling.  
Hatred crept into Steve's heart as he felt three streams of liquid heat shoved into him.  
The soldier rode out his climax and stilled, his length an unyielding rod.  
Steve wished he could black out. Or vomit. Or hear anything other than the sound of his own blood in his ears or the hiss of his breath through his teeth.  
"Surrender."  
"Piss off."  
Leather squeaked as the broad, firm body of his opponent leaned over his back.  
"As you wish."  
Steve's eyes snapped open when a different, steadier stream of heat began to fill him.  
Steve felt his abdomen swell with it. Undiluted horror spread through Steve like a cancer. He felt his body go rigid and then weaken, almost as though this moment was aging his joints by a thousand years.  
"You're sick," Steve rasped.  
The soldier leaned farther over. And Steve felt him grin against his ear. When he spoke, he spoke in Russian. Steve understood enough to decipher it.  
"Wolves don't waste dignity on prey."  
The man who was not James pulled out, zipped his fatigues, and left the room.  
Steve slowly sat up, his every limb stiff and aching. Bile rose in his throat as blood and piss and spunk trickled out of him. Steve reached across his chest to massage his left shoulder. Because he wouldn't admit to hugging himself. 

Steve sat under the shower after furiously scrubbing his every inch clean, the water as hot as it would get and his pale skin flushed an angry red. Steam billowed and shrouded the small room. The bathroom was the only place with a door. The only safe seeming space, and hopefully the neutral zone of their domestic arena. Exhausted, too much so to even get up, Steve leaned his head against the wall. And fell asleep.

The door opened. Steve snapped to attention and surged to his feet. He braced against the wall as dizziness almost knocked him back on his ass. His vision went for a moment. The water was lukewarm, but everything felt feverish. By the time he mastered himself, the soldier was already undressed.  
"Surrender."  
Steve sneered, shut off the faucet, and began to step out of the shower, not giving the soldier his back for an instant.  
His sweats had been soaking in the sink after a scrubbing of their own.  
Steve didn't make it out.  
The soldier seized him by his hair and yanked him back into the tilted alcove. The soldier pressed his broad body against Steve's, holding his head at such an angle that it left his throat exposed. Steve's stomach curdled as the soldier who was not James licked a stripe up his neck.  
Steve tried to shove him away, but the body wouldn't budge, a cage of muscle and machine. Steve's bones had the stength straws.  
"You need nourishment. But lasting this long without it is impressive."  
"How long?" Steve growled.  
"One hundred and forty five hours."  
Six days!? He had been here for six days! Steve's legs nearly buckled.  
"Surrender. And I will see to your recovery."  
Steve's vision went slightly fuzzy at the edges. He blinked hard. The heat had probably dehydrated him to dangerous levels. Wonderful. Brilliant.  
"No," he whispered.  
"You will die."  
Steve set his lips in a line.  
"You will die and I will help myself to your corpse before and after. Is that how you want to go?"  
Steve sighed raggedly.  
"Answer me."  
Steve began to realize that without the support of the soldier's body, he wasn't sure he could stand on his own.  
"No," Steve whispered, throat tight. And it hurt his pride more than the rape had.  
"Then surrender."  
Steve swallowed dryly.  
"You will suffer less. It is guaranteed."  
Steve shut his eyes. He couldn't hope to win the battles ahead without the strength to fight them.  
He let the air out of his nose and gave a very subtle nod.  
The man who was not James pulled back and looked him in the eyes. He didn't release his hair, but he did give him some slack, enough to follow the soldier's eyes as they moved from the soap down to his…  
Steve averted his eyes at the sight.  
No.  
It was a weapon.  
Steve couldn't think of it any other way.  
"Clean it up."  
Was there no level this monster would draw the line? He wanted Steve to wash his own blood and seed off his flaccid cock?  
"What did they do to you?" Steve mourned.  
"Do it. Or you will never leave this room."  
Do what is necessary to win. You haven't lost. Play this right.  
No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.  
It's about humiliation. It's just a scare tactic. Don't give in just go through the motions.  
Steve took the soap and lathered and worked it over the soldier's . . . weapon and the water rinsed the suds away. He didn't look at him and tried to ignore the fact that he could feel him hardening in his palms. He tried to be as methodical and efficient as possible.  
When it was done, Steve put the soap back, refusing to meet the man's eyes. Only when the soldier released his hair and moved his hand to his shoulder did Steve look into his agonizingly familiar face.  
The soldier put pressure on Steve's shoulder… and brought Captain America to his knees. 

Steve sat at the kitchen table over a plate of tough jerky. It didn't matter how many swallows of water he took or pieces of meat he downed. Steve couldn't get the taste out of his mouth.  
Soap, sweat, and semen had seeped into his every sense.  
He could feel the cold now. Especially in nothing but a towel. No one would know.  
It was necessary.  
He had lost plenty of fights before. But none of them seemed to hollow him out as much as these last two defeats.  
It was only a battle.  
He'd get stronger.  
He'd win this war.  
And he'd go home.  
Hopefully with Bucky on his six.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You may want to sit down for this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sips coffee*

Steve opened his eyes to the same world he closed them in. His first strategy was to choose the farthest bedroom at the end of the hall, easiest to defend. His time overseas had more than prepared him for a thin mattress with no sheets. He considered sleeping on the floor, but wanted to be higher up for the vantage point.  
True to his word, the man who was not James hadn't touched him since--  
Then shut his eyes and wished for sheets.  
Steve forced himself out of bed, purposely ignoring any sore fraction of his physique, and launched into reps in sets of twenty. Pushups, situps, planks, etc. He was panting and misted with sweat before the fourth rotation--a significant deficit from his fitness topside.  
Steve gritted his teeth and forced himself through five rotations.  
His normal was seven.  
But if he pushed too hard, he'd be back where he started. Steve stood up and used his shirt to blot the moisture from his face and cringed. It smelled like a locker room. Really needed a wash like his trousers got. He turned to the door and froze.  
The soldier leered from the threshold.  
Every fiber taunt, Steve stared back.  
Flashes of memory bombarded him in strobes. His senses took the brunt.  
The cold concrete against his cheek. The pain between his legs. The sweltering heat of the shower. The weight of the weapon. The taste of--  
Steve averted his eyes, defeated again, and growled at himself.  
There were no cameras. No one would know. He was still the fighter. Still a captain. Still a symbol. The only tarnish was on the inside.  
No one would know.  
When he doggedly looked up, the soldier had gone. Steve let his shoulders slacken.  
He freshened up in the bathroom, a space that now nauseated him, so he spent as little time inside as possible. Steve noticed a bottle of hand soap that he had not seen yesterday sitting beside the faucet. He used it and hung his shirt to dry after wringing it out.  
In the kitchen, Steve opened the fridge. On the top shelf, he found a carton of eggs. He frowned. Wracked his memory.  
There hadn't been eggs there before. Had there? Steve must have checked the fridge a dozen times for trap doors. Steve shrugged and fixed himself a piss poor meal of eggs and potatoes a d a tall glass of water. God, what he wouldn't do for a cup of piping hot coffee…  
Steve downed the water in gulps.  
The whole production tasted bland without seasoning or spice. The stove got warm enough to solidify the whites, but the centers were still runny. The potatoes were tough too. Then again Steve had never been a patient man. Maybe with a little more time--  
Steve saw the dark mountain that was the soldier come into the doorway from the corner of his eyes. He stiffened, that mech arm glinting in the harsh fluorescent lighting.  
A second of silence.  
"Surrender."  
Steve almost spit breakfast across the table. But he forced himself to chew. Swallowed.  
He had no idea what cranny of himself it came from, though looking back later it would give him a nugget of hope.  
"Can I finish my spuds first?"  
Hope that a kernel of his old self remained inside. Sheltered. Protected.  
Of course, it had been the wrong response.  
Steve's cheek was smashed into his plate an instant later. No time for reflection.  
He felt the plate crack.  
"Surrender."  
The soldier didn't sound angry. Maybe that was why this was so wildly infuriating. His repetitive tone was level. Even when Steve had his ass in the air in the living room yesterday.  
Steve shut the memory out.  
"Not today." Steve drove his elbow back into the soldier's abdomen with enough force to dodge him. He stood, upending his chair, and took half the plate with him. He hurled it like a disk at the oncoming man, who blocked it with his mech arm. It gave Steve enough time to snap a leg off his chair and brandish it like a bat.  
He'd never made Little League. But he was happy to take a swing at the man who was not James. The soldier came at him. Steve swung the bat. The soldier caught it and yanked Steve closer, close enough for Steve to use a push kick to slam the soldier back into the table and once again put space between them. He had lost the bat though.  
The soldier tossed the bat aside with a hollow clatter.  
Steve frowned.  
He wasn't going to use it?  
Steve noticed that the soldier didn't pick up the jagged remainder of plate either.  
Maybe he couldn't use weapons that were not immediately on his person?  
Or, more likely, he didn't need them.  
After the soldier mastered himself, they stared each other down from across the kitchen. Steve knew he had a wall at his back. But he was closer to the door. He needed to get to an open space. Gain ground.  
Yet, Steve couldn't bring himself to put his back to the man who was not James. Steve's hands were cold. His breaths came fast. He couldn't decide whether to attack or run.  
Mother of God…  
This was fear.  
Steve was scared. Scared of him. Steve hadn't been afraid since the fourth grade, though he couldn't remember the source.  
He balled his clammy hands into fists and steeled himself.  
The soldier looked fierce. Unmoved. "Surrender."  
"Go to Hell." Steve advanced with a roundhouse kick and caught the soldier across the face. He followed up with a side swing that connected with his ribs. He jabbed, crossed. Hooked. Wailed on the man with blind fury leaching from a dark, dark place within. He'd make him pay for what he had done. What he had put hm through.  
Then the soldier made a sound. Steve hesitated. And then recoiled.  
The soldier was chucking as he straightened. Steve wanted to bash his face in. However, when he looked again, he noticed something else.  
The soldier didn't have a single mark on him. Not a bruise. Not a cut. Not a scrape or scratch. Not even a busted lip. Steve had split punching bags with a lighter beating.  
"What do you remember before they brought you here?"  
Steve sneered. Spat. "I don't want to have a conversation with you."  
"What do you remember?"  
"Are we gonna fight or are you gonna gab?"  
"So you don't remember anything."  
Steve felt the crack that appeared in his stoney expression. Like the one in the plate.  
"I--" Steve searched the floor for answers. For anything before the vault and chains. "I…" There was nothing. He remembered disjointed things. Training with Natasha. Bombs. Teaching Peter proper cursive. Smoke. Tony rolling his eyes. Reading in bed. Barking orders. Pouring coffee. The mess hall. The morning trumpet song. Spaceships.  
Where was the order? The linear story? Why couldn't he remember?  
"We're already there."  
Steve roused himself from the confusion and shook his head. "What? Where?"  
The soldier only stared at him, a tiny shadow of a smirk curling his lip.  
What had he meant? What had Steve--  
*Go to Hell.*  
The man who was not James had just said...  
Steve choked out a laugh. He shook his head. He rolled his eyes in true Tony Stark fashion and wiped egg off his face.  
"Wow. Right. Jimminy, did they do a number on you."  
The soldier blinked.  
Steve sighed and stared at him. "This is ridiculous. You're just brainwashed."  
"Am I?" he asked in Russian.  
"Sure as Sunday, pal."  
"How did you get here?"  
Steve shrugged in exasperation. "I was brought here. By a pack of Hydra goons."  
"HOW did you get here?"  
Steve began to feel a very uncomfortable pinch in his stomach. Heard a faint ringing in his ears.  
"An elevator," Steve whispered.  
The man who was not James blinked again, looking entirely too nonchalant.  
Steve edged backwards. "No. No. This is just one of your scare tactics."  
The disappearing chains.  
The eggs.  
The bottle of hand soap in the bathroom that hadn't been there yesterday.  
Steve's head began to throb.  
The soldier stepped forward. "You fell."  
The ringing intensified.  
Steve shook his head as he edged backwards. "You're lying." Frantic. "You're lying."  
"You're dead, Steve."  
Steve covered his ears against the ringing. Against the truth. "Shut up!"  
But he heard the man who was not James loud and clear.  
"You died fighting Thanos."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say coffee? I meant straight scotch.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gay sex dead ahead.

Steve’s breaths came quickly, just barely visible as white wisps in the air of their tent.  
“Merciful God,” he whispered.  
Sergeant Barnes popped up from between his legs under the heavy wool blanket. “You sure you wanna bring God into this?” He ducked back down, lips working Steve’s length.  
They could still hear the other Howling Commandos around the roaring fire outside, swapping stories and sharing celebratory brews. They’d just brought down another Hydra hub and it looked like they were in the clear until the team reached Moscow.  
Steve moaned, his fingers weaving patterns of desire into James’ brown hair. The wet, smooth warmth squeezed him so perfectly. He panted. Moaned for more. His toes went numb and he curled them, the sensation surging up his spine and exploding from his groin as he shot his load into James’ throat.  
He could feel the sweat rolling down his temples despite the chill. Steve shivered in pleasure.  
“James,” Steve sighed out. Steve felt the blanket shift and heard Buck spit his spunk into his hand. He opened his eyes as the guy moved over him, looking down with his piecey brown hair hanging in his eyes and his smirk smacking of that lazy arrogance he was infamous for back home.  
“You better keep it down unless you want to explain to Dugan what I’m doin’ between your knees,” James said lowly.  
“Oh. In the most graphic detail,” Steve whispered. “I could probably sketch a visual aid.”  
James shook his head at Steve. “He’d definitely need it.” He winked.  
Steve chuckled as he gazed up into his lusty green eyes. His handsome face. “Pretty sure he’s piss drunk right now and wouldn’t remember a thing anyway.” Steve gave a gasp when he felt James’ hand slip between his cheeks and coat him with the still warm seed he’d just released. James didn’t waste time inserting his finger.  
"Mn~"  
“You get off on this huh? The fellas a few skips away while I’m painting your insides?”  
“You’re filthy.” Steve’s smile went crooked as he spread his legs for him.  
“You love it.” James dove down and caught Steve’s lips in a kiss that sizzled against his tongue, heavy body a welcome weight. He added a second finger, found, and began to massage Steve’s sweet spot.  
Steve moaned into his mouth, long fingers digging into his muscular back. James knew his body like a Ford engine. Steve begged and willed his body to relax. It was messy, but familiar. And as Steve bent his knees to frame James’ hips and James slid home, Steve went to pieces all over again. 

Steve opened his eyes, immediately aware of the hardon in his sweats. He went to sit up and found his head throbbing. He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. Groaned at the pain. His surroundings sharpened into focus: grey and drab and hollow.  
Steve’s spirits withered with his morning wood.  
He was still here.  
Wherever here was.  
Fresh anxiety washed over him. What had happened? When had he gone to bed?  
Why did his head feel like the time James made him pound a bottle of scotch whiskey?  
Steve turned and slid his feet off the bare mattress and onto the floor. As much as he wanted to go back to sleep, he should probably start his reps.  
Steve’s eyes snapped open. Everything came roaring back to him.  
Forgetting his headache, Steve surged to his feet and raced down the hall into the kitchen.  
All the chairs were upright, four legs in tact. The table had not moved. He peered around for the broken plate to find the floor as unremarkable as it had been the day he arrived. Steve darted to the fridge, took a breath, and opened it.  
No eggs.  
Steve sighed a breath of relief so large, he had to brace his hands against his knees.  
A nightmare. It had only been a nightmare.  
Steve chuckled at himself as he shook his head.  
No doubt Hydra had drugged him somehow to get his mind to cook up something that preposterous. He stood up and put his hands on his hips.  
Steve looked up, half expecting to see the man who was not James in the doorway.  
Nothing. He frowned.  
Steve balked to find himself what? Disappointed?  
Jesus. What was wrong with him today? Steve shook his head and left the kitchen. He paused before taking the hallway to the bedrooms to poke his head into the living room.  
Lifeless. Not a thing out of place.  
Steve looked toward his bedroom, the shadows in the corridor seeming particularly dark. Everything was so still, so quiet, that breathing seemed an affront.  
Slowly, quietly, Steve walked back down the hallway. He kept close to the wall. When he reached the soldier’s bedroom, he peered around the doorframe. The bed was empty. Steve stepped inside. Checked the corners. Steve knelt and, to his shame, looked under the bed frame.  
Nothing.  
And it left only one more place.  
Steve’s excitement began to climb. If the bathroom was empty, that meant that the soldier was gone. That meant he had left in the way they came in--that he would be coming back through the vault and give Steve an opportunity to escape.  
Don’t be inside. Don’t be inside, Steve’s mind chanted silently as he inched toward the door. Steve lifted his fist and quietly knocked. He didn’t know why. The soldier would have never afforded him that courtesy. When no one answered, and Steve was certain his suspicions were correct, he opened the door.  
Steve went rigid with horror.  
The bathroom wasn’t empty.  
Laying on the floor, propped against the corner of the shower, was a man in uniform with a massive spear through his chest. The front of his suit was covered in blood, his skin pale and his open eyes hollow. Steve had never been so certain of a corpse in his life.  
But the man in the shower wasn’t the soldier.  
It was himself.  
Steve whirled toward the sink to vomit and found himself staring at a reflection through the eyes… of the man who was not James. 

Steve sat up with a ragged shout, his chest heaving for breath. He searched around him wildly.  
He was on the kitchen floor, surrounded by the carnage of the battle he’d had against the soldier. The broken chair. The stray leg. Shards of plate and pieces of food, including egg.  
“No,” he begged, his voice a desperate rasp. “No.” The ringing in his ears subsided.  
It was true.  
He hung his head in his hands and let tears fill his palms.  
“I remember,” he sobbed quietly. “I remember.”  
Steve Rogers was dead. 

Hours must have passed with Steve seated on that kitchen floor, staring blankly at the mess before him. He had turned his body to prop his back against the wall. He had cried himself dry, apathy and vacantness the only pillars of character remaining.  
He heard footsteps enter the kitchen, the crunch of porcelain beneath the soldier’s heavy boots. Steve didn’t look up.  
“Will I ever leave this place?” Steve whispered.  
The soldier didn’t answer.  
“Why am I here? I know I wasn’t . . . perfect. But I thought . . . ”  
Another beat of silence. Steve swallowed a growing lump in his throat. He had only just come to terms with his status, but not the implications of it.  
He would never see his mother. Or Peggy. Or James. Or--  
“Surrender.”  
Steve didn’t look at him, but any tears dried up instantly. He scoffed out a mirthless laugh. “You can’t hurt me.”  
The soldier seized him by the hair and suddenly Steve was being dragged down the hall. He grasped at the man’s metal wrist, his muscular legs kicking and scrambling to find purchase on the concrete. He pressed down and dug in hard. Trails of blood soon followed his heels. He growled and gritted his teeth against the pain, thrashing with anger and adrenaline as his closest companions.  
“Let go, you son of a bitch!”  
“I can’t hurt you, huh?” the soldier asked in Russian, calm and cool. “Sounds like a challenge to me.”  
“LET ME GO!”  
“Do you surrender?”  
“NO!”  
The soldier dragged Steve into Steve’s bedroom and threw him up on the mattress. “Let’s test that theory.”  
“I’m already dead,” Steve snarled, pushing up and away from the soldier toward the head of the bed, smearing the mattress with the blood on his feet. “Can’t do worse.”  
“You have this all wrong,” said the man who was not James. “I'm the wolf. /You/ can’t hurt /me/.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve remembers more of his past, and not just the glowing reviews of his patrons.

"I don't want to hurt you."  
The man who was not James laughed unkindly. "Sure you do. I can see it in your eyes. Or is that something else?"  
The soldier's eyes darkened, demeanor notably shifting in the worst direction. The man who was not James had Steve pinned, his knee wedged roughly between his thighs as he ripped the sweats off his hips.  
Dead.  
Steve was dead. And currently existing in purgatory with the only bully he couldn't beat. Steve hated him. Hated him for his power. For how magnetic the pull to the soldier felt. A gravitational force of nature. Manacles binding Steve to secret cravings and wicked wishes. The man pressed his lips against Steve's mouth and Steve bit him.  
"Fiery thing, aren't you?" There should have been blood. Should have been a bite mark. But the man who was not James must have been hewn of rock and steel.  
"Surrender."  
Steve spat in his face.  
The man locked his bionic digits around Steve's wrists and shoved his hand between their bodies. He opened his pants and toyed with Steve's entrance. Steve squirmed, teeth gritted together.  
"I'm going to drive my dick so deep into you. And you're gonna love it." He forced up one of Steve's knees. A jolt of excitement shot through Steve.  
Steve writhed and clocked him across the jaw with one elbow.  
The man licked his lips, shifted, and pushed his erection against Steve's thigh.  
"Stop it," Steve growled, suppressing a shiver. He averted his eyes, fighting a blush as the man put his fingers in him.  
"Surrender. And I'll consider it."  
The man pumped his fingers inside him.  
Steve groaned and pried for freedom as the soldier curled his fingers. Suddenly Steve went rigid, back arching, as the man found his sweet spot and pressed down. Rubbed it. Steve moaned.  
"That's it, slut. Put that pretty mouth of yours to work. Beg me with those baby blues."  
"Shut up!" Steve gasped.  
"I'll give you just what you need."  
Steve pulled viciously at the grip and whined against his will. The man lined up and, in a single jerk, plunged his full mast into Steve.  
"No," Steve hissed.  
"Oh, yeah. So nice and tight."  
"Don't," Steve begged.  
"You hug me so good. Fit like a glove. Like you were made for it."  
Steve bared his teeth and refused to meet his eyes.  
"Cocksucker while you were living too huh?" He shifted and began to drill into him. Steve bit back a moan. "You've got a real great cunt, blondie."  
Steve squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block out the humiliation. Ignore how much he enjoyed it.  
"Surrender yet?"  
Steve pursed his lips, eyes crinkled from the pain. And the pleasure. It had to stop. He was on the brink. On a precipice he couldn't fall from.  
"Yes! Yes, God damn you! I surrender!"  
The man looked positively feral. Beastly as he sneered down into Steve's face.  
"Good girl." The man began to pound into him, hard enough to hear the slapping of their flesh. The man's pace was punishing, his hips surely leaving bruises.  
"Stop!" Steve growled. "You said you'd--!"  
The soldier shrugged. "You took too damn long."  
Steve's stomach sank.  
"Does it feel good? This how you like it?"  
Steve despised the tears welling in his eyes.  
"Stupid slut. You gonna cry for me?"  
"Stop it."  
"But we're approaching my favorite part."  
Steve scowled.  
"I've had just about enough of your denial. Aren't you tired of living your double life?" The soldier grinned.  
Steve surged upward and kissed him. Kissed him with all his anger and hatred and rage. With teeth and tongue. Steve let himself harden; let the friction between their abdomens stroke his cock. Steve locked his ankles around the man's hips. And it nauseated him how natural it felt.  
"Did I say you could do that?" The man glared as he tore away.  
Steve leaned up.  
"It's another hole to fill. Fill it," Steve fired back.  
The man who was not James kissed him like he meant to suffocate him. Steve tried to return the force and ended up moaning into his mouth.  
He felt his cock start weeping.  
Steve shifted his hips just enough for the man's length to scrape his prostate.  
The soldier smiled savagely and stilled inside him.  
"Much better. Now ride it."  
"I--"  
"Do it, bitch. We both know this is your favorite kind of rodeo."  
Glaring up into those cold green eyes, Steve started to rotate his hips, stirring the cock inside him, sliding over inch after inch. The soldier moaned.  
"That's more like it. Not too fast now. Nice and slow."  
Steve gyrated his hips to get him farther in and felt his body temperature climb. Caught himself panting.  
"That is a great look for you."  
"Shut the fuck up," Steve hissed as the man took a handful of his thigh. Slapped his ass. Steve moaned through his teeth.  
"That's it, slut. Tell the truth."  
Steve could feel himself caving. Straining. Cracking under the pressure.  
"Say it."  
"I don't know what you're--" "Say it!" The man who was not James nearly snapped both of Steve's wrists. "I like it," Steve admitted, breaking and healing in unison. "I like this."  
"And?"  
"And I want you to do it until I'm in ruins."  
"That's right. Because you're as rotten as I am. Because you've taken more dick than anyone. You've begged for it. In Fury's office. Behind the barracks. On the boxing mat. In the church annex."  
"Stop," Steve pleaded, blushing fiercely.  
"You act so superior when deep down, you want to be shamed and stuffed. You like us bullies, so long as we're balls deep in you."  
"I don't," Steve lied.  
"You're an addict. Always have been. Always will be. And we'll do this dance until you start being fucking honest for once."  
The man who was not James resumed pounding into him. And by the time Steve came, he was hollering for it.  
The man who was not James took Steve on his back and then slotted between his ass cheeks on his stomach. Reamed him on his side with his metal hand around his throat and Steve's leg in the air. There was no part of them not drenched in sweat. Steve lost count of the number of times he unloaded. For the first night since he arrived, Steve slept undisturbed by nightmares. Just a black, dreamless velvet sleep.  
Like he'd earned it.  
When was the last time he'd had a proper dicking? Had it been on Fury's desk? Or over the back of Pierce's couch? In the carriage of a STRIKE transport with Rumlow? In the bedrooms of the army's most decorated? Steve did love his men older; older and in positions of authority.  
He hadn't cared if they were unavailable either.  
Maybe it had been in the stables of Asgard after Thor's wedding to Jane. Thor had been the toughest to endure, even piss drunk on Asgardian ale. The guy's cock was as meaty as the rest of him.  
Steve remembered now.  
Remembered how much better he felt with another man's rod up his ass. How easy it was to cede control. To stop thinking. Stop spiraling into the whirlpool that was his own mind.  
He had tried to justify it with the stress of his duties. Tried to say each time would be the last time. But it was never enough. Not even when the rumors ruined a preacher's marriage or tanked a Senator's campaign.  
The soldier was right.  
There was a part of Steve as rotten as they came. A part that would crawl and grovel to be fucked into submission.  
Maybe he did deserve this.  
Maybe here was where he belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a delightful surprise for me to write. Paints Captain America in a very different, very human light.  
> And tbh, I like him better that way.


	5. Chapter 5

When Steve awoke, the man who was not James had gone. He was alone. Alone in this hollow, cold cubicle of a bedroom.  
Guilt wrecked him. And shame destroyed the rest.  
He turned his face toward the mattress and let the tears fall.  
The man who was not James did not return that day. Or the next. Fear of never seeing him again wormed it's way into his mind. Burrowed in like a splinter.  
Steve forced himself through the routine he had kept--reps, shower, food, inventory, and then try to find a way out. He caught himself straining to listen for footsteps. Begging to hear the vault door groan open.  
"Please," he'd pray.  
But no one came.  
Finally, on the third day, the soldier returned. Steve could have wept with relief. Had his pride not been an obstacle, Steve would have kissed him.  
Kissed his tormentor. His captor. His rapist.  
Steve had to steal away to the bathroom to heave his guts into the toilet.  
Like a mustang, he was breaking.  
The man who was not James found Steve and fucked him on the bathroom floor, demanding the surrender Steve relinquished too quickly.  
"Don't go," Steve whispered, still laying in his own spunk and shame. He couldn't look at the soldier. Couldn't let him see the desperation in his eyes.  
The soldier's only answer was the resounding thud of his boots as he left the bathroom and headed back down the hall.  
Hadn't he read about this somewhere? Wasn't it some sort of syndrome or sickness? To yearn for the man holding him prisoner?  
An hour after the vault door had closed, Steve forced himself to his feet, showered, and went to start on dinner.  
This time, he set the table for two, but the soldier never showed.  
The silence began to chip away at his sanity. He laid on the naked mattress, staring at the door, and could swear that he heard ticking from somewhere. When he slept, he dreamed of the man who was not James. And waking up hurt almost as bad as the nightmarish things the man did to him.  
Four days passed. Steve began to operate more and more like a zombie--a husk of the spirited fighter he had been--except when the tears came.  
Steve had never cried this much when he was living. Not even when his mother passed.  
He stopped looking in the mirror. Stopped caring about appearances. What did it matter?  
When the vault door opened on the fifth day, Steve dropped what he had been doing and met the soldier in the den.  
"The more you want me, the less I'll come."  
"Says who?" Steve asked hoarsely.  
"This is Hell. That's how it works," the man said cruely.  
"I can't stop."  
"I know. Now get on your knees and show me some real lip service." The man unzipped his fatigues. And Steve obeyed.  
After a few moments, the soldier pulled Steve by the hair high on his cock and spilled his load down his throat. He released a second stream on Steve's face.  
When the soldier turned to leave, Steve caught his wrist. "Stay for dinner?"  
The man did. And promptly fucked Steve on the kitchen table before they'd finished.  
They laid in Steve's bed hours later, Steve watching the man's stony face stare at the ceiling. Listening to him breathe. Studying the rise and fall of his broad chest.  
"I won't be back," said the man who was not James. "For a very long time."  
Steve's eyes watered. "I know." He lay in his side, aching to move closer.  
"Did you love him? The man I resemble?"  
"All my life." Steve's voice broke.  
The soldier's frown deepened. "This is one of the crueler torments I've been apart of."  
"Stay with me," Steve whispered. "I won't bother you. I won't resist. Just… don't leave me alone."  
The soldier turned his head and, mercilessly, met his eyes.  
"You're in Hell, Steve. To be in Hell is to be alone."

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse.  
> This is just what comes out when I wake up angry for no reason.


End file.
